A so called girls' night out

Now, first of all, I would like to point out that you don’t have to be a girlie girl to go on a so called girls’ night out. In fact, you don’t even have to be a girl. We don’t discriminate against penises (despite sometimes being discriminated against for lacking them). As long as you don’t spare any details about your dirty past and are happy to play drinking games, you’re in. And that’s how we included Junior in our Saturday night plans. 

When both the rugby games were over, the crowd thinned out. Only a couple of groups (one could call them generation X and generation Y) stayed to make sure the bar staff was kept busy. What better way to lure secrets from others than with wine and peer pressure? Some of them we chose to instantly forget (we don’t mind dirty, but we can do without outright mingin’), and to clear our minds we eventually decided to move on to another destination. Junior, being drunk and stupid, mentioned going home since he was too awkward to go out with his friends’ sisters and his captain’s wife. As people in general don’t like to be reduced to someone else’s sister or wife, this resulted in Junior being dragged along to a pub. And to a burger place. And home with the rest of us. Last I heard was that he’s now signing up for the ladies’ team instead.

And as the Sunday morning came creeping up on us girls in the bedroom*, I found myself in a very familiar position. On the flank, tired as hell and pressed against a sweaty front row arse. Just like during season.

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*Junior quickly volunteered for the sofa in the living room. I think he’d appreciate this info being here, just for the record. In other words, he was scared shitless for multiple reasons.